Stop

Stop, shadow of my elusive good,
image of the spell I love most,
beautiful illusion for whom I die happily,
sweet fiction for whom I live painfully.
If my chest serves as an obedient steel to the magnet of your attractive graces,
why do you flatter me,
if you are to mock me then, fugitive?
But you cannot boast, satisfied
that your tyranny triumphs over me;
for although you have mocked the tight bond
that encircled your fantastic form,
it matters little to mock arms and chest
if my fantasy creates a prison for you.